Silver Beginnings
by Lanthiriel25
Summary: Where did Dean's silver ring come from? What does it mean to him? John and the boys have been in the same town for a while when John takes on a local hunt, which causes Dean to be confronted with some bittersweet revelations. Takes place when Dean is 18 and Sam is 14. (Some swearing, very brief mention of young victims of a creature attack.)


Summary: Where did Dean's silver ring come from? What does it mean to him? John and the boys have been in the same town for a while when John takes on a local hunt, which causes Dean to be confronted with some bittersweet revelations. Takes place when Dean is 18 and Sam is 14.

Warnings: Some swearing, although nothing which isn't common in the show. Brief mention of young victims of a supernatural creature attack.

Disclaimer: Writing belongs to me. 'To Kill a Mockingbird' is the property of Harper Lee and the publishing company. Everything else belongs to Warner Brothers/CW/Kripke and co. For entertainment purposes only.

AN: I was always curious to know what the significance of Dean's ring was; to wear it constantly, it was obviously very important to him and I wanted to explore why that might be. Hope you enjoy the story. Reviews are much appreciated. :)

* * *

**Silver Beginnings**

_By Lanthiriel25_

'Sam, I need you to clean these weapons for me.'

Sam had barely gotten through the door before John barked his orders at him from across the room. Seeing John hadn't even looked up at him as he had spoken Sam grimaced, barely restraining a cutting retort. He hadn't had the best day in school; his head had started to ache halfway through the first period and he couldn't seem to get warm no matter how many layers he had piled on that morning, not to mention the light-headedness which started when he was walking back from school with Dean. He hadn't told Dean about it though, he would only worry, somewhere under all the teasing of course, and Sam didn't think it was that bad anyway; he just wanted to get somewhere warm, finish his book and revise for tomorrow's test, and then get an early night. Taking a calming breath, Sam tried to respond as reasonably as he could to John's 'request'.

'Sorry Dad, I can't. I've got school work I need to do for tomorrow. And I'm not feeling so…'

'So what you're telling me is that your grades are more important to you than other people's lives?' John interrupted abruptly, still not looking up from the small pile of silver objects he seemed to be contemplating with an almost alarming intensity.

'No, of course not. How can you say that? It's just that…'

''It's just' nothing. Now get to it. Your school work'll still be there when you're done.'

On another night Sam might have put up more resistance but he just didn't have the energy, so sinking down onto the floor where the weapons were all spread out, categorised and compartmentalised, he picked up the nearest piece and got to work. His mind drifted to Dean and how weapons were more often than not his division, he enjoyed it after all, but Dean had fallen into doing some handyman work for an elderly lady down the street, putting up shelves, that kind of thing. She paid well and despite his flat-out denial and furious blushing Dean seemed to enjoy the motherly attention she lavished on him.

An hour later Sam's eyes were blurring as he tried to keep the guns in focus as he reassembled them, giving them one final check-over. As much as he hated doing this he knew these were what stood between his dad and Dean and whatever supernatural thing they were facing, and he wasn't going to let his feelings about the whole thing put his family in danger. Pushing himself slowly to his feet, trying not to wobble too obviously, Sam made his way to the sink and poured himself a glass of water, taking a small sip. Sam glanced around the room to locate where he'd dropped his backpack. Seeing it by the front door he picked it up, fully intent on making his way to his and Dean's room and finishing his book. He was almost through the door when John's voice stopped him.

'I'm going out tonight Sam. Got a skinwalker that needs putting down.' Sam turned, surprised to find John actually looking at him, nose not buried in prep for the hunt. The dropping sensation in his gut had nothing to do with his feeling nauseous, but everything to do with John's pronouncement.

'What, again? But…'

'But…?' John prompted grimly, eyebrow arched in challenge.

'It's just that…' Sam tried. 'Dad, Dean was gonna go out tonight, have some fun, enjoy himself, and if you go, he can't, and he's been in all week, just like you told him, and…'

'Dean will do as I say, Sam,' John interrupted his youngest son sternly.

'I know Dad!' Sam rejoined, his voice getting louder as he became more and more frustrated that his dad just could not see what he was doing to their family. 'That's exactly my point! He always does what you tell him. But what about him Dad? What about what he wants to do? What about what _I_ want to do? You never think about us…'

John had had enough, and his temper, already on the edge, completely snapped. 'Sam, don't you ever tell me I don't think about you boys! I do what I do to keep the two of you safe. And if that doesn't suit you, then tough! I'm your father and you will do as I say!'

Sam clenched his fists by his side, feeling the anger burning inside of him; why did his dad never listen? Thoroughly annoyed he turned and marched into his and Dean's room, slamming the door behind him with such force the whole wall shook, pieces of chipped paint and dry wall floating down from the cracked ceiling. Sam threw himself down face-first on his bed, pounding the faded pillow a couple of times for good measure. With all the tension and the shouting his headache and mild nausea were back in full force. Groaning Sam rolled over onto his back, staring at the mouldy ceiling which seemed to be slowly spinning. Sam sighed as he wiped his hand across his face, pushing his hair out of his eyes, trying to clear his thoughts and keep whatever it was he was coming down with at bay. He had that test tomorrow and he needed to study, and Dad and some stupid headache were not going to stop him. It took a lot of effort but he managed to get himself sat up on the bed without feeling too dizzy and pulled his book from his backpack.

He couldn't help the small smile that tugged at his mouth whenever he saw the tattered book in his hands. Sure it was torn, creased and battered but Dean had bought it for him. When he'd come home that night, a few weeks ago, with instructions from the school to find a copy of 'To Kill a Mockingbird' for class study, his dad had been in a foul mood and the mere suggestion of spending their hunting fund on school supplies had been met with outright denial. Sam had tried calm reasoning and then shouting but nothing worked, and Sam had resigned himself once again to being the 'poor kid' in school, as if always being the 'new kid' wasn't enough. Dean had fought his corner of course, but John wouldn't be moved. A couple of hours later, John had gone to the bar, leaving Sam and Dean alone until Dean went out to the local store to get some supplies needed for Mrs. Goldenberg's lawnmower repair; he was asleep before either his dad or older brother were back. The following morning was tense with hardly a word spoken between them until they were almost at the school gate. Dean had reached into his bag and pulled out this battered copy of the class text for that semester, with a simple 'Here y'are kiddo' as he ruffled Sam's hair, before telling him to be careful, just like he always did, and headed to his own classes. Sam remembered staring at the book in his hands in awe, running his hand over the front cover as numerous kids shoved by him. Realising he was blocking the way Sam readjusted his backpack, tried to straighten out his hair which Dean had messed up and made his way into the school to his first class of the day. He couldn't wait for second period when he had English Lit. and he could start reading his new book. 'Thanks Dean,' he murmured to himself as he pushed open the door to his first session.

Sam shook his head, lost in the memory. He never did find out where Dean had got the book from, or whether Dad had given him grief for going against his will. Sam recalled though that John had been slightly mellower in the days that followed, so perhaps Dean had read him the riot act instead. If it was true he was sorry he'd missed seeing that. Wriggling so as to get as comfortable as possible on the squeaky bed, without having a spring digging into him, Sam settled down to finish the last chapter, brow furrows in equal parts concentration and headache.

* * *

In the main room John returned his attention to the small range of silverware in front of him, two small, ornate candle sticks, a few old coins, a charm bracelet and a dainty necklace. Running his hand over his beard John sighed; it wasn't ideal, he'd barely get three bullets from them after melting them down. The skinwalker terrorising the next town over needed to be put down, and John knew he'd done a lot more with a lot less. Maximum of three bullets though, didn't leave a lot of room for manoeuvre. Better three than two his mind supplied; leaning back in the chair he closed his eyes briefly, the weight of everything crashing down on him.

He wasn't even on a hunt; John had decided that he needed to spend more time and energy focusing on catching the demon which had torn his beautiful Mary away from her family so he'd chosen a nowhere town with a respectably sized library where they could hunker down and he could get some valuable research done. Sure libraries didn't tend to have Demon 101 books, but if you knew where to look there were clues even in the most innocent of accounts, not least folklore and children's tales. John had resigned himself grimly to long hours spent amongst the dusty tomes; it would be worth it though, he could finally get a jump on the creature that ripped his and his boys' life apart and as a bonus Sam and Dean could actually attend the same school for a few months. Scoping out the local area, John had managed to locate and negotiate a price for a run-down but serviceable ground floor apartment, not more than fifteen minutes from the school, and even less to the library. It wasn't the nicest of areas, but it would do and he knew his boys could hold their own if they needed to; he'd trained them well.

His research occupied most of his time, leaving Sam and Dean alone to get on with things as was becoming increasingly frequent in recent years. They were fine; they were more than capable of looking after themselves day to day, and whilst it made John's life a lot easier he couldn't help but feel ashamed that he put them in situations where they had had to become so self-sufficient. It was something John sincerely regretted, but he was doing this for his boys, to keep them safe, and to avenge their mother. The hours in the library were tough though. John was more of an action man; research bored him to tears no matter how much he understood the importance of knowing what it is that you are facing. So when he heard whispers of mysterious deaths in the neighbouring town, he was itching to investigate. One less supernatural creature stalking the Earth was always a good thing in his book.

It was a skinwalker. Similar to a werewolf but able to change fully into animal form at will, at any time, and able to maintain higher brain functions when transformed. The skinwalker in question was targeting families, specifically young boys, making its way through maybe two or three kills every other night. It wasn't converting them, just tearing them apart, for no other reason aside from the thrill of the hunt. Interviewing the families and hearing their anguish John struggled to keep the job strictly professional. He'd seen the boys the creature had targeted; he had had to leave when examining what was left of one of the bodies as all he saw when he had looked at what would have been the child's face were his boys' faces, all torn and bloody, eyes glassy and lifeless, ripped away from him just like Mary had been. Enough, he'd decided. Just, enough. This creature was not going to break up any more families, and he wasn't letting it live long enough to even contemplate getting within a kilometre of his sons. He'd needed silver, and fast; the skinwalker seemed rabid for its kills, but John had taken that as a good sign, it would be careless and make mistakes, he could kill it, he just had to be quick.

John had stopped at the local thrift stores, pawn shops, everywhere he could think of where he could get his hands on cheap silver quickly. But luck was not on his side it seemed and all he had to work with was the meagre pile sitting in the middle of the table in their rented apartment. It wasn't enough. He had considered waiting until he could get a hold of some more, have more of an arsenal at his disposal, but the image of the mangled corpses were branded onto the inside of his eyelids, and he couldn't let that creature unleash its evil again. The frightening possibility of the creature moving on to this town made ice pool in his gut; he'd tried to erase the horrific scenes his mind painted for him in such detail, of coming home to his boys having been ripped to shreds, by downing two shots of neat whisky. The burning had helped him focus and ignore the nightmares dancing in his head.

But where could he get more silver? The answer had called to him like a beacon; it wasn't much but it would give him maybe one more bullet, making the possible two into a round three, and sometimes it was that last bullet that counted the most. But he couldn't; his heart and mind had rebelled at the idea, he couldn't do it, it was too hard. But what about those families? What about Dean and Sammy? Was his sentimentality worth the risk? Pushing down his roiling emotions John had pulled his duffle towards him, hesitating before rummaging through it, pulling out a small, dusty case. He didn't how long he had sat there just staring at the navy blue box, willing all the memories away. With a deep breath he'd hardened his resolve. She was gone, nothing would bring her back, and if destroying one of her last remaining possessions could help other families and keep her boys safe then John thought perhaps she wouldn't mind at all. He'd snapped open the box to reveal the charm bracelet Mary had been given by her parents when she was small. She wore it almost constantly when they were dating. He'd asked her about it on many occasions, _what do the charms mean? how do you know it's pure silver?_, _is that important?_, often getting a playful smack when he tried everything he could to get an answer out of her, about what it meant to her. He never did find out though; Mary pulled off most of the charms when they got married, and didn't wear it quite so often. Remembering the glint of silver around her wrist though made him smile though; it wasn't fancy or ornate, it was beautiful but understated and that suited Mary perfectly.

Carefully John had lifted the bracelet from the box, remembering how'd done the same thing fourteen years ago, sifting through the charred wreckage of their home and finding it surprisingly undamaged, if somewhat tarnished, in the half-crumbled bedside drawer-set. The bracelet had felt cool to his touch as it rested so innocently in his palm. His heart was pounding and his eyes were prickling; closing his eyes against his emotions he was faced once again with the skinwalker's victims and he'd made his decision. He had to do this. His boys needed him to do this. Pouring himself another shot and knocking it back with a grimace he'd forced his memories away and put the bracelet with the rest of the silver he'd collected. Three bullets. He could do it with three bullets.

Retrieving the small tool box from under the table, which contained his silver smelting equipment, having made several makeshift bullets in his time, John resolutely ignored the fact that Sam was only really a few feet away and he was about to destroy one of his mom's last possessions. Deliberately keeping his eyes trained on the silver, and not the closed bedroom door, John set the heat mats in place, before placing the candle holders in the crucible and firing up the hand-held propane torch, heating the crucible carefully. He watched as the silver and added drops of water melted down, almost mesmorised by the bubbling metal liquid. The heat scorched his face, making his eyes feel tight and his skin dry but he persisted until the silver was hot and liquid enough to be poured into the bullet mould. Once that was done, John placed the newly formed bullet still in the mould into the small, industrial cooler he had 'borrowed' from Bobby on his last visit; it did wonders for speeding up the process. John then returned his attention to the necklace and a selection of the coins, before starting over on bullet number two; he knew it was just prolonging the inevitable but the thought of watching Mary's bracelet collapse and disfigure itself made his heart ache.

Once he'd finished the first two bullets, cooled them, and set them on the table ready to go, John bit the metaphorical bullet himself, and threw the remaining coins and the bracelet into the crucible for bullet three. Brutally ignoring the memories and whispering doubt at what he was doing, John fired up the torch once again and begun the process for the last time.

* * *

'Hey Dad,' Dean greeted as he closed the front door behind him, throwing the bag of gingersnaps Mrs. Goldenberg had made him onto the kitchenette countertop.

John's head snapped up from the mess of silver bubbling in the crucible he was heating to see Dean's entrance. Something akin to fear and shame flashed momentarily in John's eyes at Dean's arrival but Dean was too busy rifling through the cupboards to see what there was to eat to see it. John was glad of it.

'Sammy in there?' Dean gestured to their room, raising his voice slightly to be heard over the sound of the torch.

'Mmm.'

'Everything alright Dad?' Dean ventured.

'Everything's fine Dean!' John snapped, his emotions completely wrung out, causing Dean to jump, eyes wide. Shaking his head to himself at his response, Dean shifted against the counter as John switched off the torch.

'What happened?' It was just one thing after another these days between Sam and his dad and Dean was getting tired of it; he hated to be in the middle, but someone needed to try to keep the peace and hold their little family together. Most days it did feel like a losing battle though.

'Sam thinking he's too good for us is what happened. I asked him to clean some of the weapons. Not a big job as I'd already laid them all out ready, but no, he'd rather do his school work.'

Dean sighed, running a hand down his face in frustration. It was always the same old argument between the pair of them. He wondered just what state of a temper Sam was busy stewing himself into behind that closed door. Pushing himself off the counter Dean decided his stomach could wait until after he'd spoken to Sam and hopefully calmed everything down.

Dean knocked quietly on the door to announce his presence and slipped in around the door. He had learnt from past experience that barging in on an upset or angry Sammy often resulted in something being thrown in your general direction. The picture he was greeted with however was not what he was expecting. 'Sammy?' Clicking the door shut quietly behind him, John couldn't hear any more of what was being said, beyond a low, indistinguishable murmur of voices. John blinked away the light sheen of tears from his vision, resolutely ignoring the fact that that quiet click of the door felt just as final as Sam's earlier slam, closing him off from his boys and it was all his own doing.

* * *

Not five minutes later Dean came marching out of the bedroom clutching a glass in his hand, a determined look on his face. Refilling the glass with water he returned with it to the bedroom, before emerging again a couple of minutes later. Grabbing the Impala keys from where they lay on the table he strode to the door without a backwards glance to John.

'Sammy's coming down with something. I'm going to the store,' he offered sharply in explanation as he adjusted his leather coat before stepping out into the cold air, hand briefly resting unconsciously on the amulet his brother had gifted him years before.

John ran a hand through his hair as he glanced at the closed bedroom door, angry and upset at himself for not seeing it before. Dean would never out rightly accuse him, but he could read it in his tone, the stormy expression, the rigid slant of his shoulders; John should've known Sam was sick, he should've done something about it. John couldn't blame Dean for his anger towards him, he was angry at himself too; Sammy was his baby boy, and he had completely missed the fact that he wasn't feeling well, being so wrapped up in the case. As he heard the Impala's engine rumble as Dean pulled away, he stood up to go and see if Sam needed anything and to apologise for his earlier behaviour, knowing he'd probably over-reacted given everything else he was dealing with. He made it to the door but he couldn't make himself go any further. He laid his palm flat on the door, as if that would make him feel closer to his boy, wishing there wasn't this growing void between them.

* * *

Dean returned not twenty minutes later, carrying a grocery bag full to the brim. Placing it carefully on the kitchen surface he began to unpack its contents, ignoring John completely, leaving him to carry on with whatever he was busy with. Dean opened the floor level cupboard and bent down to search for the crockery he needed.

'Aha!' Dean exclaimed as he found a saucepan big enough, and he began to get to work.

Once Dean had prepped all the ingredients and they were simmering away happily in the pot, the delicious smell of tomato rice soup drifted through their dilapidated apartment. John's stomach churned at the smell, reminding him so much of Mary it physically hurt. Images flashed through John's brain of Mary doing the exact same thing as a four year old, feverish Dean was nestled in his arms, face buried in his neck, whimpering around his thumb in his mouth. Gritting his teeth against the onslaught of memories John tried to focus on the task in hand. Sam was going to be fine, Dean would see to it, better than he ever could, so focus John, skinwalker, silver bullets.

The smell drew Sam from his bed; that smell meant Dean to him, his dad had never cooked him tomato rice soup when he was sick, it was always Dean. And no matter how grown up he professed to be, when he was sick, Sam wanted his big brother.

Seeing Sam leaning against the doorway wrapped in his blanket, Dean frowned.

'Sammy, I told you to say in bed, keep warm.'

Sam huffed. 'I know, but it's not that bad, honestly. Just a bit of a headache and feeling shivery, it's not a big deal Dean.'

'Hm mm. Well even if I did believe you, which I don't by the way,' Dean emphasised, pointing the wooden spoon he was cooking with at his brother, 'wouldn't you say it'd be better to get you better now rather than wait for it to get worse.'

'Yeah, I guess you're right,' Sam begrudgingly conceded.

''Course I am. Big brothers are always right,' Dean teased, smiling at Sam's exasperated eye roll in response. 'Here,' Dean held out a spoonful of the soup for Sam. Sam walked over to the kitchenette, careful not to trip over the blanket, and tried the soup. 'Too hot, too cold?'

'It's good.'

'Right, well let me get this sorted and you get back into bed. Or do I have to carry you there myself?' Dean good-naturedly threatened.

'I'm not a kid Dean.'

Switching off the hot plate Dean turned and made a show of looking Sam up and down. 'I dunno. You kinda look like a kid to me,' he teased with a smile. His face fell however when he saw Sam still holding his book amidst the folds of the blanket. 'Didn't I tell you to stop reading? It'll make your headache worse Sammy.'

Dean reached out to take it away from Sam, causing Sam to back away a couple of steps.

'I've finished it Dean. I'm not reading it, not really. I'm just going over some bits, to remind me about some things for tomorrow.'

'You don't need the book to revise,' Dean argued, gently prising it from Sam's grip. 'You know it's all up there in that giant brain of yours already. And besides you don't suck it up and get yourself better tonight, you won't be at school to sit the test tomorrow anyway.'

Sam opened his mouth ready to argue, but found he couldn't refute his brother's logic. Seeing he'd won Sam over with the dreaded possibility of missing school tomorrow Dean pointed back to the bedroom, with the clear instruction for Sam to get his backside in there. He repressed a smile; Sam was so easy sometimes! Serving up a generous helping of the tomato rice soup, Dean took it into Sam.

'Here ya go.'

'Thanks Dean,' Sam replied sincerely.

'Yeah, well,' Dean cleared his throat awkwardly as he sat down on the edge of his bed, watching Sam take his first mouthful of the hot liquid, 'don't get used to it, princess.'

Sam glared at his brother, but there was no real heat behind it. Kicking his boots off, Dean swung himself round so he was resting against his head board, just like Sam on his bed. Folding his hands behind his head he watched his brother out the corner of his eye, looking for signs of fever or anything else, as he began to quietly hum to himself. It would seem Sam had been telling the truth though, he didn't seem too bad; hopefully by getting him to rest tonight, nothing would come of it. Dean smiled in relief. He couldn't help but notice however that Sam kept sneaking glances at his tattered novel at the end of Dean's mattress where Dean had dropped it after bringing him his soup. Kid really wanted to revise that damn story huh? With a put-upon sigh, Dean stretched over and retrieved it, making a show of examining the front and back covers in mock-disgust as Sam looked on curiously.

Dropping the book unceremoniously beside him, Dean turned his head so he could see Sam properly. 'So,' he began with seeming curiosity, 'did your little feathered friend get ganked in end or what?'

'What?' Sam blinked at Dean in confusion before realising what Dean was asking him. 'You do realise there isn't an actual mockingbird right? It's symbolism Dean.' Sam spoke slowly, exasperated, as if he was talking to a child who should know better. Hadn't Dean been set the book in school? Well, even if he had he probably wouldn't have taken the time to read it in any case Sam mused.

Dean raised a questioning eyebrow, as if prompting Sam to explain further, giving Sam no clue as to whether Dean was in fact familiar with the story or not. Sam sighed and launched into a long explanation about literary devices and characters in the book which the author may have considered to be the 'mockingbird' in her story. Dean couldn't help but shake his head fondly as Sam eagerly spoke about all the people and meanings within the story. Sam was resting and warm, eating his soup, taking mouthfuls in between expounding about prejudices and 'scape goats', revising without actually realising and so avoiding getting himself worked up about the whole thing. All in a day's work, Dean smiled.

* * *

John had pretended to be busy as his boys interacted in front of him, staying as inconspicuous as possible so he could simply observe them, in awe at their easy banter and obvious care they had for each other. He was now sitting listening to his boys through the half-open door, his heart heavy in his chest. He could see the side of Dean's face through the opening and he felt his throat tightening as it suddenly hit him how like Mary Dean really was. He had her soft features and expressive eyes, but he also had her heart. John saw all of her kindness and her caring soul, her loyalty and her love, in his eldest son. Dean had become more of a parent to Sam than he'd even been, taking Mary's place ever since he was four years old, until now it was second nature to him to look after his brother, caring for him when he was sick, listening to him about his day at school, making him meals, checking he was ok, helping him with his school work, all the while also being the soldier John needed him to be. He'd even fought him over what was best for Sammy, even going to far as to go behind his back and buy Sam a knock-off copy of that damned book because it was what Sam needed. 'You'd be so proud of him Mary,' John whispered, tearing his gaze away from his eldest's face which shone with joy as he heard Sam crease up with laughter something Dean had said.

Memories and thoughts of Mary and Dean swimming in his mind, the image he was confronted with as he refocused on the crucible in front of him struck him hard. It was like someone had pulled the curtain down; the fog had cleared enough for him to see exactly what he was doing, what he had done. Mary's half-melted bracelet lay cooling in the crucible, the propane torch hanging limply in his hand; he'd destroyed Mary's last possession their little family owned. Beautiful mirages of Mary danced through his mind, all the time wearing her beloved bracelet, more often than not with Dean clutching on to it every time Mary held him in such a way that he could reach it. Her glittering eyes, her golden hair, her musical laugh, her shining smile… they all faded as the congealing lump of tarnished silver and mangled charms came back into horrible focus. The smell of heated metal and cooling soup mixed nauseatingly in the air, causing John to choke around his tears. What had he done?!

He couldn't stay there a second longer, and anyway he had a skinwalker to catch, a skinwalker with a taste for young boys no less. Stuffing the weapons Sam had cleaned earlier into his duffle, he gathered up the two silver bullets he'd already made, they would have to do. Forcing himself not to look at the crucible again, he marched to the door, desperate to get out of the stifling room.

'Dean!' he barked. 'Clear up in here and check the wards!'

'But…' Dean's soft protest drifted through from the bedroom.

'NOW!' he thundered, waiting until he heard the quiet 'Yessir' before he slammed the door behind him and strode into the chilly night, not needing to hear any more of his eldest's protests about leaving when Sam was sick, failing in another of his fatherly duties. He had to focus on the hunt.

* * *

Standing with some effort, Dean sighed. Sam seemed okay so he didn't really mind leaving him, not like he was going far anyway. 'I gotta go sort the other room out. Finish your soup, Sammy.'

'It's Sam.'

Dean rolled his eyes. 'Whatever, little brother.' Dean ruffled Sam's hair.

'Deeeaan!' Sam whined, trying to squirm out of reach as Dean laughed at him.

'Eat your soup,' Dean repeated, 'before it gets cold and you start bitching to me about the rice lumps.'

Sam pouted at Dean's insistence, but the warm soup did sooth his throat which was a little scratchy after all that talking, and it made him feel warm and comforted in ways that had nothing whatsoever to do with the actual temperature of the soup, so he scooped up another spoonful and slurped it loudly.

'Brat,' Dean accused as he went to follow his dad's orders.

* * *

Dean sighed as he saw the state his father had left the main room in; weapons strewn around, maps, newspaper clippings and books decorating almost every surface, clothes thrown every which way, and his silver-melting equipment standing proudly on the table, silver still bubbling as it slowly cooled. He frowned; John was never normally this disorganised, something must have rattled him good to make him leave in such a hurry, but damned if Dean knew what it was. As he began to pick up the weapons and store them more safely he found himself wishing yet again that John would keep him in the loop more than he did.

Deciding to start on the silver equipment next, Dean reached carefully for the crucible, touching it gingerly at first to test the temperature. It was hot but not too hot to handle so Dean pulled it towards him, wondering how best to clean it all away. Why didn't Dad use this silver anyhow, Dean mused. A faint frown played on his brow as he looked at the silver which had not yet melted; there was perhaps half of a charm bracelet still intact with the other half cooling into a shining pool. Dean lifted up the crucible to get a better look at the bracelet; he felt something akin to recognition but he couldn't place it. Why would he recognise it anyway? Turning the crucible in his hands he tilted his head at an angle, curious as to why this mysterious bracelet seemed so familiar, and why it seemed so important for him to remember.

Suddenly an image flashed in front of him, almost causing him to drop the crucible. _His mom laying him into his bed, brushing his hair from his face before kissing his forehead. His little hand reaching up to fist around the silver bracelet hanging off her wrist. Mary detangling herself from her son 's grip with a soft laugh. 'Goodnight Dean. Angels are watching over you.'_ Dean started as the memory faded. Mary's voice echoed in the silence of the room to the soundtrack of Dean's pounding heart and harsh breathing. What…? Turning his attention back to the bracelet again, Dean carefully reached out and ran in finger along the edge of the fragile chain. 'Mom?' he whispered.

_Curled up in Mary's lap, staring with interest at the colourful pictures as she read to him, her musical voice washing over him as he clutched his favourite bear, Mr. Fuzzy, in one hand and toyed with one of the few charms on her bracelet with the other. _

_Mary singing 'Hey Jude' to him as he buried himself into her side, watching the night lights dancing on the wall._

_Sobbing his heart out as Mary bounced him on her knee as she inspected the splinter embedded in the pad of his finger, asking him if he could be brave, before distracting him with a story about Mr. Fuzzy as she made his owie go away, kissing him on the cheek. 'You're my brave little boy.'_

_Mary baking an apple pie and letting Dean help her roll out the pastry, bracelet safely set aside on the kitchen ledge, gleaming in the sun streaming through the window, the homely scent of cooking apples wafting pleasantly through the air._

_Clutching the bracelet in his sweaty fist as tightly as he could until it dug sharply into his palm as his dad paced the hospital corridor in front of him. 'Keep it safe for me angel,' Mary had whispered, before she disappeared through those scary, swinging doors._

_Watching his dad fastening the bracelet round his mom's wrist as they watched, pride in their eyes, as Dean held his baby brother, all wrapped in blankets, for the first time. 'Heya Sammy,' Dean cooed, holding the precious bundle oh so carefully, ready to prove to his mommy and daddy he was a big boy now and would help look after Sammy forever and ever._

As the memories faded into the background, Dean felt numb. This was his mom's? His mom's bracelet? He didn't even know John had been able to rescue it from their blackened, crumbling house, that he'd had it all these years. What was he doing melting it down? Well, it was blatantly obvious what he was doing; Dean sank into the chair in disbelief, he just couldn't fathom how his dad could do something like that. It was Mom! Placing the crucible reverently on the table, he wiped a hand over his face. He was surprised when his palm came away wet; was he crying? Pushing aside the shock and the cutting pain at being faced with the repressed, bittersweet memories of Mary, Dean felt the anger wash over him. How dare Dad do this? How dare he? The anger just kept rising, until he couldn't control it any more. Letting out a guttural sound of pure frustration, Dean grabbed the edges of the table and upturned it, sending everything crashing to the floor in an attempt to vent his feelings.

'Dean?' Sam's worried voice, cut through the sudden silence after the crash. Dean swallowed hard, running a hand once again across his face, wiping away any evidence of his wayward tears.

'It's fine Sammy,' he choked out. 'Just…just wasn't watching where I was going, that's all. You finished your soup?' Dean prayed Sam would accept his rather feeble explanation and take the redirection. He did.

'Yes, Dean,' Sam huffed.

'Well then, shower, pajamas and bed for you.'

Sam appeared in the doorway between the bedroom and the main room, wide eyes taking in the destruction Dean had wrought.

'What? Dean, I'm not…' Sam protested distractedly.

'A kid, yeah I know,' Dean finished for him. 'But are you really gonna turn down the chance at first shower?' Dean tried valiantly to push his roiling emotions down. He wasn't expecting to be confronted with the memory of his mom so suddenly, so unexpectedly, and he couldn't handle it. He needed to keep Sam at a distance long enough for him to get himself under control; Sam didn't need to be dealing with all of this too.

Sam was oblivious to Dean's inner confusion and hurt, just like Dean wanted. 'Well, when you put it like that…' Sam smiled, the thought of a long, hot shower to sooth his aching muscles sounded like heaven right about now. Something was bothering Sam about his brother though. Eying the upturned table and scattered objects once more, Sam began, 'Dean, are you…?'

His brother cut him off sharply however. 'Just get your butt in there before I change my mind.'

Sam turned quickly, not wanting to let his chance at the sacred 'first shower' slip through his fingers, making his way to the bathroom.

'Sammy,' he heard Dean call from across the room, turning to see what he wanted, before taking a soft hit to the face. 'Don't forget your towel!' Dean quipped, as Sam pulled the towel from his head, causing his unruly hair to stick up at every angle.

'Jerk!' Sam replied as he shut the bathroom door behind him.

* * *

Alone again, Dean took a steadying breath as he surveyed the damage. Soft strains of 'Hey Jude' were still echoing hypnotically in his head, making him shiver but yet making him feel inexplicably comforted and warm in equal measure. Stooping to right the table, Dean felt like he'd aged a few decades in the past few minutes. Being careful of where he stepped he collected the scattered equipment, desperately hoping that he hadn't caused more damage to his mother's beloved bracelet. As he retrieved the crucible he hesitated before peering at its contents, his breath held. The silver was still intact, solidified into the crucible bottom. Taking in the equipment laid out in front of him, Dean had an idea. Glancing at the closed bathroom door, smiling slightly at the sound of Sam's humming only just audible above the sound of the water spray, Dean began to form his plan in his mind.

Quickly rearranging the equipment, crucible centrestage, Dean pulled up the chair and settled himself down for some important work. He poked and prodded at the remains of the bracelet, checking its integrity and seeing how much of it, if any, could be saved. As he pulled the still slightly softer side apart the chain began to slip into the mess, taking the residual heat from the inside bottom of the crucible and slowly lost its shape; heart dropping Dean realised it was most likely beyond saving, beyond his skills at least. Leaning back in the chair Dean fought back the tears building behind his eyes for the second time that night; it was stupid, he'd only just discovered this bracelet still existed, but it still felt like a loss all the same. Picking up the tool box to begin to load away the supplies, Dean's gaze snagged on the deep maroon wax which was used to make the moulds. Glancing back at the clump of silver in the crucible, Dean decided if he couldn't fix it, there was no way he going to let it be lost, thrown away and forgotten, his mom deserved better than that. Snatching up the wax Dean set to work, creating a mould. It might have been selfish of him, he mused, as he sat bent over his project, but was it so wrong of him to want something that belonged to his mom, a keepsake, a memory? They hardly ever spoke about her and his heart nearly swelled at the thought of being able to carry some part of her with him wherever he went.

* * *

'What're you doin' Dean?' Sam asked through the billowing steam as he emerged from the bathroom, making his way over to the table where Dean was working, causing Dean to jump.

'Just finishin' up for Dad.'

'Oh,' Sam replied, stumbling on the trailing end of his towel as he made his way to their bedroom.

'Watch it, shorty!' Dean called out, looking up briefly from the wax between his fingers.

'Shut up Dean!' Sam retorted good-naturedly as he shut the bedroom door behind him and started to hunt for his nightclothes.

He reappeared minutes later, glass in hand, to fill it up before he turned in for the night. Seeing his intentions, Dean set aside what he was doing, joining Sam in the small kitchen area and pulled out the grocery bag from earlier. Handing Sam a bottle of Gatorade and a strip of Tylenol, Dean ushered Sam back into the bedroom, with the instructions 'Just in case' as Sam stacked the items on the small set of drawers between their beds.

'You're not going to tuck me in are you Dean?' Sam complained, seeing Dean watching him, hovering in the doorway.

'Not a chance, lil' bro,' Dean quipped with a smile as Sam crawled under the covers, fidgeting for a good few seconds until he was comfortable. 'Night, squirt.'

'Squirt? If I didn't feel so cosy I would be out of bed and kicking your ass so hard right now,' Sam challenged through his blankets, the muffled tone not lending itself all that well to the threat.

'I'm trembling in my boots,' Dean assured him, voice laden with sarcasm, as he turned to leave the room, flicking the light switch and pulling the door to as he left.

He caught the quiet mumble of 'Night Dean' just before the door clicked shut.

* * *

Dean spent the rest of the night hunched over their little table, concentrating harder than he ever had before. His brow furrowed with the effort, lip caught between his teeth as he poured his blood, sweat and tears into this precious object. He finished the mould he had started before properly melting down the contents of the crucible. He had to stop a couple of times as the heat of the torch caused the sweat to roll in his eyes no matter how much he wiped his forehead with the cuff of his shirt, adamant that it was, in fact, the sweat which made his eyes sting and not the onslaught of the happy, but now tainted, memories of Mary he was confronted with. Once the silver had been moulded as precisely as he could manage, Dean set it in the cooler, stripping off his over-shirt, as the sweat running down his back made his t-shirt stick to him uncomfortably.

With not much else he could do with the silver at that point in time, Dean glanced at the clock. He had no idea when his dad was going to be back, so he figured it'd be best for him to get his butt in gear and sort out the room as ordered. Sorting the laundry and piling up all of John's sometimes seemingly unconnected research didn't seem quite so much of a chore as it usually did with the memories of his mom to keep him company. One particular resurfaced memory made Dean smile despite that fact that it was blurry around the edges.

_'John Winchester, am I your maid? Because I'm sick of you expecting me to pick up after you. Would it kill you to tidy up after yourself once in a while? It's disgusting!' Mary complained to her husband, son balanced on her hip as she brandished a single, runaway sock in John's face, clearly found stuffed down the back of the sofa or some such place. Little Dean coughed loudly as Mary inadvertently brushed the sock past Dean's nose when putting it in the laundry basket, startling a laugh out of Mary. 'See. Your son agrees with me Winchester!' Mary called in victory. John lifted Dean from Mary's arms. 'Traitor!' he whispered in his boy's ear affectionately as he began to tickle his son's belly mercilessly, causing him giggle and squirm in his dad's grip._ Oh mom, I totally agree! Dean shook his head ruefully; it was amusing to note that his dad had never been tidy with his clothes, despite his military background, and it had drove Mary to distraction too.

Knowing his dad had left so suddenly earlier Dean guessed that he hadn't eaten, probably since breakfast if his track record when focused on a hunt was anything to go by. Sighing, Dean pulled out a chipped plate from the cupboard before throwing together a simple sandwich for when he returned, leaving it out on the side.

Once the room was once again in order, and the crumbs from making John's sandwich swept away, Dean retrieved the mould. Sitting down on the threadbare couch, ignoring the cloud of dust which exploded from the cushions, Dean turned it over in his hands. Carefully, he prised off the wax and was left with a circle of silver lying in his hand. His mould was not perfect and as such the circle was not quite true, but with a few minutes' attention with some padding and a tiny hammer, which Dean had always scoffed at in his younger years, the ring was just about perfect. Using the stained material he'd found in the bottom of the toolkit, Dean began to polish the precious silver circle, absentmindedly humming under his breath as he worked.

* * *

Dean sat in the dimly lit main room of their apartment, shining silver ring cradled in one palm. He couldn't take his eyes off it; not because of his workmanship but because of all it reminded him of, the feelings of hope and love and home, his mom. He absentmindedly broke off a piece of gingersnap with his free hand and chewed on it slowly, his stomach no longer happy with being ignored; he had half a mind to pour himself some soup, but he didn't want it use up the leftover in case Sammy woke during the night and wanted some more. He knew he should probably get to bed, before his dad got back, but the atmosphere in the room just felt so calm and peaceful that he didn't want to break it.

The front door ricocheting off the wall and the subsequent blast of cold air did that effectively enough however, announcing John's return. Closing his fist around the silver band, Dean stood up to meet his father. Despite everything he wanted to say to his dad, the questions he wanted to ask, Dean couldn't help but instinctively check him over for injuries and enquire after the night's proceedings. 'So, how'd it go?'

John's eyes tracked to his son slightly behind the rest of him. Drunk then, Dean guessed, but not so drunk that he couldn't co-ordinate himself or apparently answer questions coherently.

'Skinwalker's dead. No more victims. Good….good night's work,' came the gruff response.

'That's…great dad.'

Used to a more enthusiastic response from his eldest, always wanting to know the details, the tactics involved, everything, John turned to Dean. Taking in the room he saw that everything was in order, tidier in fact that it had ever been, but Dean's face was confused, lost.

'Son?' John prompted from his place leaning against the sink, washing the smears of skinwalker blood from his face.

'How could you do it Dad?'

John closed his eyes, slumping against the edge of the sink, knowing exactly what Dean was asking. He'd been desperately hoping they could avoid this.

'You know why son,' John stated baldly, his voice flat, expressionless. 'I needed silver, it was silver; there's no room for sentimentality in our line of work Dean, you know this.'

'I know Dad, it's just…' Dean lifted his head from where he'd been staring at his clenched fist. 'Why'd you stop? Why didn't you finish?'

Looking into his boy's face, seeming so much younger than his eighteen years, John felt his resolve crumble.

'Because of you, Dean.'

'Me?!' Dean started in disbelief.

'You…' John began, a ghost of a smile on his lips. 'Sometimes you remind me so much of Mary, most of the time actually. The way you are with Sam, it's just like….I was watching you both tonight….And I couldn't…I just, I miss her, you know' John faltered in his explanation; he couldn't say anymore, he hoped Dean understood though, he had to, blessing the whisky he'd been able to say even this much.

Dean swallowed hard, trying to keep his emotions in check as he watched his dad struggling to stay in control himself. Dean missed his mom, so so much, he almost couldn't stand it, but his dad missed her more so pushing aside the voices in his head screaming at him not to do it, he held out his hand towards to his dad, palm upturned.

Looking down at the ring, John glanced up at his son; his gaze was clouded but clear enough to see all the conflicting emotions swirling in the depths of Dean's eyes and painted so brightly across his face. Quickly realising what Dean had done, and what this probably cost him, John swallowed against the lump rising in his throat. Forcing away the fog which was hovering at the edges of his brain, John reached out and took the ring from Dean, closely inspecting it, watching the polished silver dance in the artificial light. It was beautiful John realised, an impressive piece of workmanship; Dean's skills in making things never ceased to amaze him. And that his son would do something like this for him...he was speechless.

'Well, g'night Dad,' Dean murmured, before turning to make his way to his bedroom, heart heavy in his chest.

Taking in Dean's slumped stature and dragging feet, John began to realise just how much of a toll that night must have taken on his eldest. Dean always tried to present a tough exterior to the rest of the world, even his family, although to a lesser extent, but John knew that Dean felt everything keenly, and it was as plain as day that he was struggling with everything that had been laid on him that night. Spying the sandwich resting so innocently on the counter John felt his heart clench; even when hurting it seemed Dean couldn't help but look out for his family, whether they deserved it or not.

'Dean,' John called as gently as he could, causing Dean to stop and turn in question.

Dean was met with the sight of his dad's back however, as he hunched over the counter, hands gripping the counter edge tightly, head hanging. Even though he knew he had his son's attention, John couldn't see Dean, which made saying what he needed to easier. Clenching his jaw, John took a steadying breath.

'You loved that bracelet. Always had tight hold of it whenever you could. I used to worry it would break or you'd hurt your mom's wrist, but she...' John's voice cracked with emotion; it had been so long since he'd spoken about Mary to anyone, but especially to Dean. 'She would tell me to stop fussing. She liked that you liked it. Her parents gave it to her, did you know that? It used to have a lot more charms on than when you knew it; she took most of them off after we married, said she liked it simpler.'

John desperately wanted to see his son, but he couldn't make himself turn around, it was too hard. Dean was standing, frozen in the centre of the room, staring at his dad's back. He was stunned that his dad was being so open, but he could only concentrate on desperately trying to remember every detail that his dad was sharing to add to his precious collection of memories.

Turning his head to the side John was able to catch a glimpse of the stricken form of his son. 'Mary, she...she loved you Dean...'

That was too much for Dean. John watched as he almost flinched, eyes wide and shining, all defences stripped away. A soft choke escaped from Dean's throat as he clasped his hands together to stop them from trembling. 'Dad...'

John forced himself to continue, despite his burning need to be anywhere else right now, nursing a bottle of the good stuff. Dean deserved to hear this. 'She loved you so much, and she'd be so proud of you...And I...'

John cleared his throat; he couldn't do it, he just couldn't. Closing his eyes in defeat John turned his face away, missing the way the heartbreakingly hopeful expression was dashed from Dean's face as he trailed off, the way Dean seemed to shrink into himself a little more as his eyes shuttered.

Silence reigned for awkward moments before the sound of metal scraping along a smooth surface pulled Dean from his swirling thoughts. He looked up in time to see John's hand pulling away from where he'd slid the ring across the counter towards him. It lay there, shining brightly against the dulled counter.

'She'd want you to have it Dean.'

Dean gaped, not daring to believe what he thought his dad meant. He tried to catch John's eye but his dad was still steadfastly avoiding his gaze. His hand twitched, eager to reach out and take the precious object, but he restrained himself, afraid to shatter the illusion. John watched as Dean hesitated, stunned. It was hard but he knew it was the right decision. Dean deserved to have something of Mary's, of the only parent who hadn't let him down in more ways than he could count. He deserved a memento of the only one of his parents who'd done right by him.

Straightening up John made his way across the room towards the bathroom to wash up before turning in. As he passed Dean, who was still staring transfixed at the counter, he placed a heavy hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently.

'New training rotation in the morning,' John reminded gruffly as he reached the bathroom, trying to reassert the Winchester status quo.

'Yes sir,' Dean rasped out in reply, his voice quiet, distracted.

Left alone, Dean slowly walked towards the kitchen counter, reaching out for the ring of silver, feeling his heart pounding in his chest. Carefully picking it up, Dean closed his fist around it again, feeling the cool metal leaching heat from his palm until it felt warm in his grasp. He crossed the main room, before hesitating at his bedroom door. Not wanting to wake his brother Dean slowly cracked open the door, letting as little light in as possible, before edging in quietly. A streak of moonlight shone through the gap in the curtains, giving Dean enough light to navigate his way across the room. Seeing Sam's covers spilling off the side of his bed, Dean carefully picked them up, pulling them up around Sam's shoulders. Sam let out a soft sigh and burrowed his face deeper into his pillow as Dean pushed his bangs from his forehead, quickly checking his temperature. Satisfied, Dean brushed Sam's shoulder unconsciously as he whispered a soft 'Sleep tight Sammy.'

Turning to his own rumpled bed, craving some shuteye of his own, Dean's gaze snagged on Sam's book still lying innocently by his pillow. Not wanting it to be forgotten in the pre-school rush in the morning Dean retrieved it and slipped it into Sam's backpack resting between their beds. He paused as Sam mumbled something in his sleep, contenting himself to watch his baby brother for a moment and enjoy the happy memories still floating in his head. Dean found himself remembering how Mary's face had lit up any time he had waved his newest finger painting, connect-the-dots activity or drawing in her face, pulling him into her lap, pointing at the different parts and asking him questions about it, before sticking it pride of place on the fridge door. He remembered her warm, steadying hand guiding his as he gripped his pencil and traced out the letters of his name, and the pride dancing in her eyes as he went on to write it out repeatedly on his own, before later progressing onto 'Mommy', 'Daddy' and 'Sammy', with a little help of course, complete with family portrait. Mary had always enjoyed helping Dean learn and he knew that she would have loved doing the same with Sam, watching him grow into the little genius he was now, who couldn't get enough of learning new things. He sighed. 'You'd be so proud of him Mom,' Dean whispered into the dark as he zipped up Sam's bag.

Pulling the curtains aside slightly Dean checked the salt line along the window before climbing into bed, not bothering to get changed. Rolling onto his side, Dean held his fist in front of him before opening it to reveal the ring in the moonlight. He tried the band on several times before sliding it onto the ring finger of his right hand where it just seemed to belong. Flexing his fingers, getting used the feel of it, Dean smiled to himself, letting the memories of his mom and the life of love and safety she had given him linger for as long as possible. He may not be able to have that safe, protected life anymore, he knew that, but that didn't stop him from fighting to give that chance to Sammy, and all the people they helped on their hunts. But no matter how dangerous his life was he knew his mom loved him and he knew that he had to be brave, for his family, and for the strangers they helped, just like his mom would want him to be. Rearranging his pillow, careful not to dislodge his trusty Bowie knife, Dean settled down for the night, ring hand tucked firmly under his face, the cool metal pressing gently into his cheek. 'Love you, Mom,' he breathed out as he fell asleep.

* * *

The End

* * *

AN2: If anyone is interested I'm currently working on a loose sequel, which focuses on where Dean's ring disappears to during Season 5, featuring more of Sam. Due to real life commitments it will probably be a while before I share it, but it's in the works.


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